


Where Whispers and Rewards Lead

by Kanene_Rose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Hela is Secretly a Sweetheart, Reader-Insert, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-05-30 00:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15085268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanene_Rose/pseuds/Kanene_Rose
Summary: Request: How about a Hela x Reader request? The reader notices how the dark queen, who is normally harsh and brash with others, tends to only be softer around the reader. The reader wonders why.I own none of Thor: Ragnarok or the MCU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The name Toril is a female derivative of Thor, meaning ‘Thor inspired fighting.’

You had never seen something so fierce…or beautiful.

It was wrong.  _So_ wrong. She was demolishing Asgard’s army like they were toys, but you couldn’t help the way your stomach jumped into your chest every time a blade came too close to her person. The woman was practically  _dancing_ around the soldiers, pulling weapons seemingly from thin air; her pronged helmet dipped in and out of the crowds as warriors charged toward her. Not a single blow had landed on her when, finally, Hogun was the last to fall. You watched as his body convulsed at the end of her sword.

That was when you remembered Selby. She would be cleaning the rooms in the upstairs corridor and, if she was half as entranced as you, she would be staring out one of the windows overlooking the courtyard without shame. You weren’t sure whether or not this mysterious attacker was finished with her conquest, and you weren’t taking the chance that she’s spy Selby, or any of the other servants, and decide to make them her next target.

You resolved to find them first. You simply had to.

The thing about the throne room, however, was that it was so very  _long_ …so long, in fact, that you were only halfway to the desired door, sprinting, when the woman stepped into the hall.

“Stop,” her voice echoed, clear and calm, as if she understood that she only needed that single syllable to make your heart cease its rhythm. “Who are you going to warn?”

You took a bracing breath and turned around. Her helmet was gone, replaced by a long mess of raven hair, and her armor had diminished—it was obvious she was one of the gods, but  _which_ , you weren’t certain.

“The servants…” you muttered. Your cheeks grew hot with embarrassment at how meek and small your voice sounded.

“And what could a servant do for you,” she teased as she began to walk closer in smooth, languid movements, like a cat stalking its prey, “against  _me_?”

You swallowed hard. It was difficult to answer while those piercing eyes were tracing your figure so shamelessly.

“It’s what I can do for them.” You took a step back, peering momentarily at the wrong door in the hope that she’d be misdirected. “I can get them out of here before you get the chance to—”

“I don’t want to hurt them.”

“Oh…” Was there any other response? You couldn’t think of one, so you stood still, your back and arms stiff, legs prepared to carry you as quickly as need be in an instant. “Why are you here?”

The woman smirked as she continued to near; her hands rested on either hip. She reminded you of Loki, with her green and black armor, dark hair, and beautiful blue eyes…and her arrogance. That cocky grin that only grew every time you twitched or diverted your gaze. She was enjoying making you squirm.

“I see you missed my introduction,” she said. “I am Hela Odinsdottir. My father is dead,” she looked far too pleased by this for your liking, but you’d never really been partial to Odin yourself, “so I’m here to retake what is rightfully mine.”

“You’re the new queen of Asgard?”

It had been an innocent question, but it would be hard not to notice how the predatory glint of her eyes changed; she was thinking of you now, less as something to catch, and more like someone who had exceeded her expectations.You only realized after you’d said it that you were accepting her—a stranger to Asgard, so far as you knew, and the murderer of its entire military—as your rightful ruler, without really considering what that meant for the living prince, Thor Odinson, or the brother whose reappearance had spread such fierce gossip throughout the castle that you’d heard of little else all morning.

You allowed her to meet you where you stood, not stepping back or looking away.

“What is your name?”

“I’m called Toril here and in the maids’ quarters,” you answered, watching her eyes as they searched your own. “But my name is (Y/N).”

“Much more befitting,” she dropped her smirk, examining your body once again, “and untainted by reference to that useless, pampered peace-monger. Come with me.”

 

Over the next few days, Hela proved to be just as aggressive and proud as she’d been when you first saw her. She didn’t seem to mind that you were ignorant of her existence, however, or that you had so many questions about the  _real_ , war-pocked history of Asgard. In truth, she seemed to enjoy answering your inquiries; she’d spend all of dinner at your side, spinning tales of battles, recounting ancient rituals, and explaining the various political alliances (which had since been untethered) between different planets and realms.

When it came time for her own curiosities to be answered, you were the only one to whom she turned. Others couldn’t get a word in while you were both in the room, but she often encouraged you to elaborate, or prodded you with further questions if your response proved insufficient. She even expressed interest in your opinion for those things you felt unqualified to answer, like dissecting and analyzing social trends or predicting the most probable means the people of Asgard would use to find retribution for their fallen king.

You understood the palace in so far as you were concerned—the maids, the apartments, your job, and the constant gossip—and no further, though she seemed incapable of accepting your silence.

“If you would, Your Majesty,” Skurge insisted. The executioner was standing by his queen’s side as she lounged in her throne (she was not wont to do so, but rather preferred taking action to displaying lazy authority); he was much more nervous than he cared to show, and had the strange habit of shuffling between feet, as if he were trying to decide which was less painful to bear his full weight. He cleared his throat as she turned—eyes narrowed with boredom and indignation at having been shown such arrogance—and began louder than before. “Heimdall has been gathering support since his disappearance, long before you arrived. Any resistance would be organized and well-hidden by now.”

Hela pursed her lips in thought, then turned soft eyes toward you. Her voice, when she spoke to you, was much lower than when she addressed Skurge.

“I’ve heard from my executioner,” she explained, “and though he’s not quite a military man, like some of the others, I feel he may not be in touch with the workings of the common class.”

If anyone else had said it, you would have taken it as an indirect insult. Being a maid was never a proud occupation, despite the elaborate setting, and you understood that many people looked down on you as if, somehow, your low birth were also a mark on your intelligence or spirit. Hela, however, didn’t seem to care about your station: she wanted a different perspective, and you had one, and one perspective was only greater than another in terms of the situation. At the moment, yours was most desirable.

“I, um…I don’t know what you want me to say,” you admitted.

You must have blushed, because Hela smirked and sat up straighter in her throne—something she’d gotten into the habit of doing whenever she made you flustered. Skurge puffed out his chest.

“How do  _you_ think we should find Heimdall?” Hela asked. “Where would you go if you were to join their resistance?”

You had been pacing the stairs in front of her, having no seat of your own; now and again you would come to a stop, but, as you hadn’t been spoken to in some time, you did so very infrequently. Now, stock still, hands and arms locked in the air like a statue, shoulders bent awkwardly to shield your nervous frame, you realized that this was a question you could easily answer.

“All of the servants gossip,” you said, just barely audible. Then, as you realized you’d begun to respond and that Hela, in return, was offering you a kind smile, your voice grew louder, “We talk in really loud whispers, except when we’re afraid…and we scare easily. Anyone looking for Heimdall will be the only ones talking so quietly you can’t overhear.”

Skurge scoffed and said, “Are we to investigate every rumor and  _whisper_ we  _don’t_ hear?”

Hela shot him such a glare that you felt its heat, though you were no one near where it was aimed.

“You shall investigate whatever I tell you to,” she responded venomously. Then, facing you once again with that grin and a proud glint in her eye, she said, “You’ve given me an idea.”

 

You knew that there were spies in Asgard before now, but the palace, for the most part, had always felt secure. It was strange: now that you knew who the spies were, you were restless. They walked along the halls, searching for signs of whispers; anyone talking loud enough to be detected from the corridor was safe, but those few who were hushed (meaning, those who were good at keeping secrets, rather than stoking rumor) were targeted as possible leads. For several days, they roamed the grounds, and your appetite quickly diminished until, a week after Hela’s arrival, you refused to touch your breakfast.

“Eat,” she pressed, watching from the corner of her eye as you picked at your meal. After a minute or so of your small, pitiful bites, she dismissed all servants and guards from the room.

“Is there a problem?” you asked once the last man had the decency to shut the door behind him.

That morning, you two had taken breakfast in the solarium. Large glass walls around you and several elaborate stained-glass works of art overhead cast a beautiful contradiction of natural yellow and vibrant red and silver light into the room. You had noticed the previous morning, in the few minutes that Hela had taken to listen to one of her guard’s timidly-declared reconnaissance missions, that the scene in the window above was of an ancient battle: the red somehow composed both the sky and the blood of Asgard’s enemies while the silver, which cut through the red mass in long, thin strokes, was meant to represent swords and armor. Either the army was much thinner and taller than the current crop of soldiers (well…now  _deceased_ ), or the artist had taken liberties in making them as divine and striking as possible. You had imagined Hela fighting among them, hidden somewhere in the throng.

“None,” she hummed. “Should there be?”

She loved playing cat and mouse with you. You couldn’t understand why. Usually, Hela just wanted to find out what you knew, but you would divulge any information without such prodding.

“Darling, you’ve barely touched your food.”

You were so preoccupied with your anxiety that you hadn’t noticed what she’d called you…something so familiar and sweet you never thought you’d hear it from  _her_ lips. But she was always so different around you. No matter how firm or commanding she acted, you knew that she was never angry with you, and any fury you felt resonating off of her was always residual, originally directed at some third party. So, no, while you hadn’t ever expected her to call you by such an endearing name, the soft tone with which she spoke didn’t catch your attention in the slightest.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked.

“I think I’ll retire early, if that’s alright,” you blanched, pressing one hand gently against your stomach beneath the table. “I might join you in a few hours.”

“Of course.” Her expression had changed subtly; her posture was just as cocky and forward as always, but that smirk didn’t reach her eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she was  _worried_ …as if she cared. “I was going to surprise you this evening, but I suppose I could do so now. I’ve had an apartment prepared for you, just down the hall from my own.”

You stared at her incredulously, quite forgetting your stomach.

“For what purpose?”

“Your advice worked,” she answered, leaning back again into her chair. “We believe we’ve found a way to Heimdall and need only to retrieve him before this unrest of Asgard is settled.

“I reward those who do well for me.”

She spoke—as she often did—with a mixture of palpable arrogance and delicate understanding: this was something you  _should_ know, but she was going to explain it to you again anyway. Why? You had no idea. She never extended such patience to others. Swept of any appropriate response, you simply muttered your thanks and excused yourself from the room.

 

Your new apartments were much too large. You had been so wont to the cramped, comfortable space you’d previously shared with seven other maids that it felt…well, empty. Surely, there were things to occupy  _some_ of the chamber: a bed with gold-embroidered sheets, a vanity with an assortment of bottles and potions you assumed were cosmetic, a bookshelf that contained all the words and characters you felt ashamed to admit you didn’t recognize, and a wide window that took up most of the western wall, with an elegant design of pale pink and yellow stained glass around the edges. The room was beautiful to behold…from a distance.

You couldn’t help but feel as it was merely created as a work of art. Wonderful, ornate, sophisticated, but  _cold_. Where was the life? The clothes thrown haphazardly across a bed? The bedsheets accidentally put on inside-out, and the pile of one-piece coins or small trinkets that someone had collected from the grounds?

Maybe that was the problem: everything was too  _clean_. The maids were always too busy picking up other people’s messes that you’d all forgone your own. You thought that, perhaps, you’d be allowed to make your own mark on the room to make it feel more lived-in, but then you remembered that some servant or other would most likely come in and obliterate any progress you’d made.

Hela must have recognized that something was wrong, because, when you met her that afternoon in the courtyard, she stopped dead in her tracks and reached for your hands.

“Is there something wrong?” Her voice was laced with a tinge of worry, but you almost didn’t notice, so intense was the curiosity in her eyes. She held your gaze for what felt like hours, searching, scanning your face for a sense of the truth; what she found must have appeased her, as her lips curled into a genuine smile. For you, she was all soft edges.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head. You felt the blush settling in your neck and cheeks and turned your head sheepishly away, hoping to hide how much her interest affected you. “I must look ghastly.”

“Never.” Strong, firm. So reverent it couldn’t possibly be a lie. “I’ve never seen something more beautiful in all my life.”

Your blush dimmed; in a moment, you were pale, almost sickly so, and your breathing refused to steady.

Was there a proper response to this? How did one answer a queen after such a confession? Since her arrival on Asgard, Hela had proven herself to be a woman of contradictions, but, perhaps, that was only around you, just as her soft edges and genuine smiles and delicate whispers were reserved for you, too; so much was plain to see, to observe whenever she spoke to her guards and executioner.

You reclaimed one of your hands and placed it on your stomach.

“I was curious,” she continued, sensing your hesitancy, “whether or not you would consider my proposal.”

“For?”

“Marriage.”

 _Nothing_ had ever suggested she would propose to you…Hela hadn’t mentioned a romantic or sexual relationship, never mind marriage, so you were caught more than a little off guard; your heart skipped a beat and your breathing stopped. You simply stared at her—those blue eyes, that cocky smirk, that raven hair she insisted remain down despite its tendency to tangle. Hela was beautiful, but now was not the time to be thinking on that; she had just proposed to you, and you had no idea what you were supposed to think.

“You want to  _marry_ me?” you asked, perhaps a bit intensely. “I don’t understand.”

You were a mess, but it was nothing compared to how Hela looked. Her eyes widened, like a deer who’d just noticed the wolf lurking in the brush, and there were beads of sweat developing at her temples. You’d seen her fight the entire Asgardian army without so much as a wince, but, now, in the same courtyard, she looked for the first time as if she were afraid…as if the pain of war-dulled blades and force of a warrior’s swing were nothing compared to the prospect of your rejection.

“I apologize,” she muttered too quickly. “I didn’t think to—this wasn’t planned at all, I assure you, I just—”

“I’m not saying no,” you interjected.

There was a tangible silence. She refused to meet your eyes for some time, but slowly trailed her own up your body with rapt attention, not in the lascivious way some men do. You imagined her taking in every crease in your gown, every freckle, every scar and dip and curve, until she finally found your gaze again. She placed her hand on your waist—so gingerly you couldn’t feel its pressure, only the displacement of the fabric underneath—and wound the other around your neck. With one slow, sweeping step, she closed the distance between you and leaned forward to capture your lips with her own.

The kiss, too, was gentle—a single, lingering moment of neither push nor pull, but contact, uncertain and wavering. Her breath against your cheek was more prominent, more forceful, than her lips, and a strange electricity sent sparks down your spine. Her hands on your neck and waist were like pinpoints, redirecting the heat, centering it, shaping it. For the first time in your life, you felt as if you lived up to the name Toril; there was lightning in your blood, the bolts shooting through your veins.

The proposal hadn’t been planned. She hadn’t thought she’d have the nerve to ask you yet, nor did she think you’d say yes. That was simply the effect you had on her. No matter her conclusion, no matter how many hours she spent pondering your relationship and finding ways to quell that soft spot she’d developed for you, she couldn’t keep her resolve if you were there to bear witness. There was no use talking sternly to you, or punishing you, because she could never hold herself to it: your eyes, your smile, your voice, your sadness,  _everything_ stripped away her ferocity and, in that one moment of poorly-considered courage, she was finally honest to you both about her feelings.

You pulled away and looked up into her rounded blue eyes, noticing, for the first time, the frailness she possessed somewhere deep in that war-reared shell.

“I will.”


	2. Preparations

The bedroom, as before, was a work of art, completely devoid of any evidence that you had existed in it, even for a brief time, when you’d retired with stomach pains. The sheets had been replaced, the pillows fluffed and reset against the dark wood headboard, and the mattress was so sturdy—or new—that the entire thing lay completely flat, like an undisturbed pool of water. You could remember little of your day before the proposal and everything afterward was now little more than a blur: Hela loved you. Hela loved you so much that she would risk social stigma and go against convention, marrying another woman, potentially thrusting you to queen-hood. **  
**

Of course, you were never one for titles and would have never considered this if it had not been brought to your attention. But Hela was one for details, politically speaking, and she kept you close throughout the afternoon, cooing promises of love in your ear as you walked through the various sceneries of the palace; then, when dinner was ready and you were seated beside each other at the table—devoid of any other souls save the few necessary servants she allowed to come in for mere moments at a time—she asserted herself more than usual, glaring at anyone who dared to tread too close to you.

One servants you knew, a boy only several years your junior, with a strong jaw and timid shoulders, filled your goblet between meals and whenever Hela called, announcing that you had run out of drink. You had been friends  _years_  ago, before age and realization of your sex had forced you to lose most contact. As each came into their own bodies, the girls were segregated from the juvenile throng of the mixed quarters, where all the underling children thrived together, and were thrown into one of the all-female dormitories; it was strange to know that you had developed before him,  _apart_  from him, and, in the following years, you had done little to repair this strain to your relationship. Your particular dormitory was just about as far from that of the butlers as it could possibly be.

Nevertheless, you recognized him—how could you not? He was handsome, despite the strange, feminine shyness he possessed and his large, blue doe-eyes. At every opportunity, when he approached, you would turn just so in your chair so that your eyes may meet…eventually, they did. You didn’t suppress your own genuine smile, and you could tell he was struggling to keep one at bay; even so, the corners of his lips twitched peculiarly, as if it were a painful exercise.

“ _What are you staring at?_ ” Hela spat. Her voice was venom, and it had struck well: the boy’s eyes widened with the sudden fear that this one mistake would be his undoing.

You were having none of it.

“You  _cannot_  have me be served by one of my close childhoods friends and not expect some sort of familiarity,” you dared. “Ola here is one of the boys I grew up with.

“He’s like a  _brother_  to me,” you emphasized, for good measure.

The queen had only meant to defend you in her own noble-blooded, honorable fashion, but she could see that it had an unwanted effect. She had a way of remaining dignified while also retreating; there was a moment where her shoulders, though still brought up and stiff in her high-class manor, fell to an odd angle, and her narrowed glare remained on Ola—who, by now, was staring down at the dinner table with shaking hands, hoping for this whole ordeal to be over—though the muscles in her cheeks, you noticed, relaxed so that her thin-lipped expression softened, if only by a degree, nearly imperceptible to those who didn’t know her so well.

“Leave,” she said, in a tone much repaired, though her lips were still as she spoke.

You’d speak to him again—call something friendly, “ _I shall hope to see you soon!_ ” or “ _It was nice to see you again!_ ” as he retreated on wobbly knees—if you were certain that Hela wouldn’t take that as a threat to either her authority or her possession of you, or both. You didn’t want to unintentionally put a target on his back just to assert what little autonomy you might still have after a life of servitude.

“That was uncalled for,” you whispered, feeling your heart pound against your ribcage as you used up the last of your remaining courage.

“Someday soon, whenever we agree to it,” she smirked, “you will be royalty. When that day comes, no one, not even childhood friends, can disrespect you.”

“Disrespect me?”

“Familiarity,” she explained with a shrug, sipping the newly-filled goblet. She was acting nonchalant, but there was something in the way her eyes flitted between you and her drink, never landing anywhere for long, that made you think she was less at ease than she was pretending to be. “I thought you worthy of my time, my love, but that does not mean you should reduce yourself so.”

It was an odd admission, if only because Hela seemed to recognize, and shy from, how terrible it sounded; she was privileged, and acknowledged that fact, though that did not repair the damage, nor the pretentiousness, that dripped from every word of this last comment.

“I cannot reduce myself to my own level,” you reminded her of your status. “You might love me, Hela, but I will  _always_  be a maid…Dress me how you want, give me bodyguards and jewelry and an education, it all means nothing. Not that I would not appreciate your gifts, of course, there’s just a roughness to my blood, having been raised so, and I would like for you to always remember what I am. I will never look down on someone in your service, nor in mine, and I hope you never do either.”

The rest of supper passed silently, save those distant, mumbled comments on things that didn’t matter. You could tell that she was trying to redeem herself—to push herself past the limitations of her own past, her own upbringing—and you offered her kind smiles and soft replies whenever you felt capable. But you couldn’t help shaking the feeling that you would always be the exception.

You returned that evening to your bedroom, feeling more alone than ever. And now, as she had mentioned, a woman waiting in line to become queen. Or whatever sort of royalty your bloodline allowed; perhaps, with a queen already, you would become a princess, but you had no ideas about the political workings and reasonings behind the titles, so you refused to allow yourself the headache that threatened to form if you pressed the subject any further. The sun set on the opposite side of the castle, so your chambers were not flooded with that yellow-gold light, as the dining room had been. Rather, a light sort of blue came creeping in, as if it had been held at bay by some invisible force and was only now starting to near your windows, and that, combined with the pinks and yellows of the stained glass pains, were drowning the edges of the room in soft lavender and green. Against the bright red of your bedsheets, it had a very floral effect.

You undressed with a startling contradiction of realizations—somehow, you felt unnerved by the possibility of being overseen. That window—which looked out over nothing but a flat plain of grass for some dozen yards, then changed briefly to water and, finally, to a distant line of trees—was large enough to allow any passing staff to look in, spoiling what you considered to be a relatively private chamber. It felt much less secure than the maid’s quarters, though, you admitted, you normally changed clothes with a dozen other girls all in sight: you looked at one another in conversation, glanced at naked flesh in passing or through distant, fog-filled eyes, even  _appraised_  one other. But stripping alone, with the chance of being overseen, rather than the  _certainty_  of it, was somehow more disconcerting.

With a final glance out at the beautiful evening sky, you slipped beneath the covers and shifted onto your side; the mattress had no yet memorized your shape—something the other maids considered ‘lumpy,’ but you appreciated as familiarity—and it was hard to find a comfortable sleeping position. It was several hours before you finally fell asleep, and your last impression was of the silver-white stars as they blinked knowingly in the distance, too bright to leave you content to your dreams.

 

You didn’t hear the first knock, but you were stirred by the second; the third passed in-between a dream and awake state, so you weren’t certain of what you heard. By the time they’d rapped on the door for the fourth time, you groggily set yourself upright.

“Come in,” you muttered, wiping sleep from your eyes.

It was Hela, of course; she came sweeping into the room in a dark robe, hair pooled over one shoulder.

“How did you know I was not some revolutionary, coming here to take you hostage?” she asked you, but fondly. The warrior took a seat on the edge of the mattress, beside your legs, and ran her hand over the outline of your calves. “I only say what I say because I love you.”

“I know, Hela.”

Her gaze, as always, was electrifying: her blue eyes, set with such determination, with such strength. In your half-somnolence, you found it difficult to focus on anything else.

“You seem exhausted,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should leave you be.”

You pursed your lips, still reeling from a vague silhouette of your dream, though that was all you could recall, and laid back against the pillows. Hela placed her hand on your stomach and watched your breathing.

“I’ve never slept alone before,” you confessed, staring straight up at the ceiling, which, you noticed, was not a solid red like the rest of the room. Rather, gold was set in fine lines and arabesque sweeps, seemingly meaningless save for their own elegance—somehow, both language and currency of the rich—and you thought passingly of the mural that had once covered that of the throne room. How ironic that red and gold should instill such strength and nobility, yet it was  _you_ lying in these chambers…You, who had nothing before Hela’s arrival and who, even now, with her sitting beside you, cowered so beneath your sheets at the prospect of being left alone.

“Would you like me to stay the night?”

Hela’s hand remained where it was on your stomach and you froze as you were—examining the artwork above. But it was this silence, no matter its sheepish origins, that drove you to a greater understanding: this was not possession, not a sense of authority, nor some juvenile plot to sleep together (or, at least, get close enough to satisfy); it was Hela’s real and unconditional love for you, peaking out from the restrains of propriety to offer you whatever comfort she could provide.

“Yes,” you said, without a moment more of deliberation. “Come lay beside me.”

You shifted in the bed so that she had room enough to spread out—you weren’t certain if she moved at all during the night, and it was better to prepare for that possibility than to wake up with her hanging halfway off the mattress—then waited. Hela was stunned, but trying not to show it.

“Are you certain this is what you want?”

“You act as if I’m naked under the bedsheets,” you laughed airily. Then, furrowing your brow, “I haven’t made you uncomfortable, have I?”

“We got engaged today,” was all she said.

You knew the proposal had been a surprise to the both of you, and you were now beginning to wonder if she was starting to regret it. You believed that she loved you, but more than just love went into a marriage: there was a wedding to plan, political ties to figure out and smooth down in the wake of such a massive change of power, and social conventions to follow…Marrying someone of the same sex was something that no one, not even a monarch, could do without considering the possible repercussions. Perhaps she was being held back by what people would think—though, admittedly, you didn’t think she would give much weight to the opinions of others.

“Yes,” you mumbled, “we did. And we told no one, so I don’t think we’re in danger of someone accusing us of premarital relations.”

“I don’t want to intrude on you—”

You shot her a look. Eyebrows raised, if only for a second, and a smirk pulled at your lips; there was a shallow dimple forming on your right cheek and you notice her gaze drifted toward it.

“Alright then,” she concluded. Hela lifted the sheets and laid down beside you, tucking the bedthings back around your shoulders and—softly, you noted—in what little space was left between your bodies. You could feel her warm breath across your forehead.

After some minutes of grumbling and shifting, she placed one arm around your waist and put her head completely above yours on the pillow, so that her chin rested on your skull and yours turned in towards your chest; the contrast of proximity and restraint was, somehow, comforting to you, and you fell asleep within minutes.

 

Days passed, then weeks, and the noise from Heimdall’s arrest finally began to dim as his execution neared; though a plentiful source of gossip in any other ministry, Hela had provided such strong authority that very few felt safe to discuss such matters in case they were mistaken for sympathetic.

So, too, your wedding neared. As Hela was involved in the politics and war-planning that would no doubt be necessary in the near future—people were quiet  _now_ , but temperatures would most likely climb higher and higher as time spanned on and they could recuperate from the shock of their new queen—many of her servants were afraid to bother her with concerns on other matters. The wedding planning, it seemed, fell inadvertently to you, who had no idea of  _how_  it was supposed to be done or what the traditional such-and-such and so-and-so was supposed to be…You were lost again, completely surrounded by a culture that was not your own, despite having been raised in its epicenter, its support.

The servants who were put in charge of arranging the decorative aspects of the ceremony were somewhat helpful to you—they dealt specifically with religious holidays, political events, and other such occasions that required a precise understanding of the complicated rituals and traditions that your people clung to, even if only subconsciously. But you still felt as if you were grasping at straws. When asked your opinion, you mostly just nodded in agreement, or gave a vague response that shifted responsibility onto someone more educated. “ _Whatever you think is best,_ ” became something of a motto.

Hela was only bothered for the most important details.

“You still have yet to set an exact date, Your Majesty.”

Erica was a tall, slim woman—the most dignified sort of worker, who was more of a hired employee under the crown than an actual servant. She always wore dull greens and yellows and stood with her shoulders straight, head high; her dark blonde hair was pulled back into a single, elegant braid, which fell down the center of her back and swung gently back and forth whenever she walked.

Hela lounged in her throne, knees crossed, leaning on one elbow. She feigned non-interest, but you could that by the brightness of her eyes that she was intrigued; perhaps this was a matter that she couldn’t answer without someone else’s help. Several steps below, Erica waited, a yellowish roll of parchment in her joined hands.

“Is there any possible  _wrong_  date in the near future that I could choose ?” she asked.

Erica was not willing to break eye contact, but you could tell that her actual attention was broken; rather than staring  _at_  Hela, she was looking  _beyond_  her, searching with a stiff, placid expression for any pertinent information.

“No, Your Majesty.”

Hela smirked; she turned to you, her gaze and posture both becoming softer. You were standing beside her throne, opposite of the spot Skurge would normally occupy—though, you realized, he hadn’t been invited into the hall lately during such discussions—and felt a strange pull back to reality, as if a hook had caught you by the nose and given you a sharp tug. These matters were often so dull and draining, but Hela could  _always_  forced you to recover.

“Dearest,” she addressed you, her voice low and melodic, “what do you think? Shall we hurry and do it before the first snow falls, or wait until the springtime?”

Your eyes fell, your breathing deepened…Could it be possible that you dreaded waiting? That the concept itself was causing you this pain in your stomach, in your chest? You weren’t certain. When you looked back at Hela, she was tense: she gripped the arms of her throne, her spine was stiff, and her eyes were narrowed on you, as if ready to pounce.

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh, u-um,” you sputtered, “yes, of course. I don’t see why we couldn’t fit the wedding in sometime this autumn…Would it be too burdensome?”

“Oh, of course not, Your Highness,” she called you by your de facto title, whether properly chosen, simply because Hela had fancied you being treated like the princess she considered you to be.

Erica talked on, goading simple answers from Hela, while the latter continued to watch  _you_. Her eyes never moved. When the discussion faded and things, for now, were set, she dismissed the woman with an absentminded wave of her hand, then demanded privacy.

“Come here,” she beckoned once the room was cleared of onlookers. “Darling, you’re pale. Come sit here, on my lap.”

You practically fell into Hela. The moment you reached her, placing your legs at the end of the throne to sit, your weight and your neediness carried heavily into her lap, flush against her stomach and chest. Rather than recoil, however, or push you away, she wrapped you in her arms and drew you impossibly closer. You could feel her raven hair tickling your cheeks and neck as you rested against her shoulder.

“You know,” the rhythm of her words echoed in her chest; you pressed your ear closer to better feel it. “There is no shame in waiting. Should you feel too… _stressed_  by the arrangements to proceed now—”

“I couldn’t postpone it,” you whispered, “not another day. I don’t have it in me to wait so long.”

Hela didn’t show her hands too easily; she didn’t want you to know how disappointed she’d been at her own conclusion, or how relieved she was now that you’d assuaged those rising fears—that you accepted her, as queen and as a lover, but could never bring yourself to actually  _love_  her. Her long, deft fingers undid several buttons on your gown and began to rub the skin underneath in tight circles, soothing a few of the many knots that were beginning to form on your back and sides.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” It wasn’t a question. “Do you need me to join you tonight?”

Her scent was intoxicating, her fingers on your bare skin sent lightning through the muscle. You could barely tear yourself from these sensations enough to listen to her, never mind answer.

“Kiss me,” you managed to murmur, just loud enough that she could hear.

Her lips, soft and possessive all at once, pressed against your skull, your forehead; she pulled you away just enough to place gentle kisses down the bridge of your nose, resting finally on your own lips. Her slow, tantalizing push and pull, the fingers winding around your waist, the perfume and musk and sudden scent of arousal—your eyes shut so heavily, you felt the monumental weight of them, trying to pry them open to see Hela peering down at you…An impossible task that left you wanting, but her mouth was now diving lower, leaving cold patches on your neck where she’d traced her warm lips over her skin, leaving you shivering in their absence.

She would go no further—not to your collarbone, nor your breasts, though you wouldn’t refuse her if she’d tried. This was a respect she paid to you, as a woman whose station in life meant nothing. You were a filler, born to dirt, rising to the crown through no means of your own blood or skill; you were a filler to all but Hela, who drew this line now, until your wedding, to show how highly she thought of you, how much she loved you.


End file.
